


Silence

by MaverikLoki



Series: TnT [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Like, M/M, Ridiculously fluffy, Sass everywhere, always angst and hurt/comfort, because I'm writing this after all, but also a ridiculously fluffy ending, everyone is still glowing, hold onto your bunny slippers, irritated!Anders, mute!Anders, panicked!Anders, why is everyone glowing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When I prayed for the Maker to give me some quiet this morning,” Fenris rumbled, “this wasn’t what I had in mind.”</p><p>Based on a prompt asking for a temporarily mute Anders and all the angst and frustration that implies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes, marvel at my genius title choice.)
> 
> Thank you to the reader who gave me that prompt. The more I thought about it, the more I liked it, and I decided to keep it a one-shot so I didn't go overboard!

Some days, Fenris prayed for patience. Today, he prayed for silence, his patience already wearing thin.

 _Maker_ , but the mage could talk.

“…and Orsino is hardly helping matters! He couldn’t understand ‘justice’ if that was the name of the paddle Meredith used to spank him with!”

Now _there_ was an interesting visual. Fenris tried not to picture it as he watched Anders flit about his empty clinic, laying clean, if threadbare, linen onto each cot and stuffing each pillow with fresh straw, all while chattering on about mages’ rights and Templars.

Through a growing headache, Fenris watched for the crackle of blue, the ozone smell of the Fade.

“And Elthina would just waggle her finger at Meredith and say, ‘Now, you shouldn’t paddle the mages _quite_ so hard,’ all while doing absolutely nothing to stop—mmph!”

Fenris shoved an apple between Anders’ parted lips and smiled when the mage glared at him, looking like a stuck pig. Anders swatted his hand away and took a grudging bite, juice spilling as he held the red fruit in his palm.

“You just wanted me to shut up, didn’t you,” he muttered around a half-chewed bite.

Fenris didn’t mention that his eyes had started to glow. “It was an added bonus, yes. When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

Anders mumbled something noncommittal around a second mouthful of fruit.

“Mhmm. I thought as much.” Fenris pursed his lips and arched one judgmental eyebrow (if anyone’s eyebrows could be judgmental, it would be Fenris’), sliding a basket of food across the desk towards Anders.

“I don’t need a nursemaid, Fenris,” Anders grumbled.

“When you remember to eat and sleep in a timely manner, I will believe you.”

Anders gave him a rude gesture, but he reached for the loaf of bread next.

“Speaking of nursemaids,” Fenris said, “Hawke requires our assistance this afternoon.”

“Of course he does,” Anders sighed. “What is it this time? And if you say ‘blood mages’, I’ll make _you_ eat something instead.”

 

It was blood mages. Of course it was.

The Blooming Rose was rowdy tonight, the stench of sweat and booze thick in the air. The clink of dishware and the roar of voices cresting in waves against Anders’ eardrums. All in all, it was rather like a Tuesday at the Hanged Man, but with more cleavage.

“We’re not here for another magic prostitute, are we?” Anders asked.

“Depends on your definition of ‘magic’,” Hawke said with a saucy smirk and eyebrow waggle. “Though there’s another career option for you, should you grow tired of the clinic. You could call yourself ‘Sparkle Fingers’.” He wiggled his fingers at Anders, who made a face and swatted them away.

Looking back at Fenris, Anders said, “Aren’t you going to respond to this?”

“On the contrary,” the elf rumbled, smiling innocently. “I suppose you’d make a decent prostitute.”

Anders was somehow more insulted that he’d only be a ‘decent’ one.

“Fuck you.”

“Not if you’re going to charge for it.” Fenris side-stepped Anders’ smack with frustrating ease.

Beside him, Varric scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“You know,” he said, “this is giving me ideas for my next serial.” He rubbed his chin, leather gloves rasping against stubble, and winked at Anders before following Hawke upstairs.

“Oh no,” Anders groaned, scrambling after him. “You are _not_ turning me into a fictional prostitute for one of your stories, Varric!” This declamation earned him a few odd looks. He glared at Fenris.

“And _you_ can stop laughing.”

Fenris did no such thing.

 

Being flat on his back in the Blooming Rose was usually more fun, but then there was usually quite a bit less blood magic involved. The magic pinning Anders in place stank of demons in a way that had Justice rattling his cage in a frenzy, but even their combined strength couldn’t budge the wretched thing. He was frozen, unable to wiggle his fingers or even blink, while the battle raged around him.

With the wet slice of a blade, the maleficar fell, slumping in a heap to the floor. The Rose wouldn’t thank them for the mess.

The red cage didn’t budge.

Fenris loomed over him, face spattered with still-warm blood and eyes wide in concern. Anders couldn’t speak, couldn’t _move_ , and green eyes were the only thing between him and dark, cold memories of solitary.

“Don’t worry, Blondie, we’ll get you out of there.”

Maker bless Varric and his calm, calm voice.

Then Hawke was kneeling over him too, cursing under his breath, hands glowing with energy. “Usually this type of spell breaks when the blood mage dies,” he said. “I… I can’t dispel it.”

It was for the best that Anders couldn’t speak, or he’d have unleashed all manner of colorful (and likely hysterical) invectives.

“Try again,” Fenris growled. Anders couldn’t feel his lungs moving, but he was certain he was hyperventilating.

Hawke cast again, brows knit in concentration. A wash of magic and… nothing. He shrugged helplessly, and Fenris cursed.

“Hey, Broody. Try your magical fisting thing.”

Maker. He was going to die like this, wasn’t he? On the floor of a whorehouse, surrounded by idiots.

“Is that wise?” Fenris asked, brows knit.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Hawke answered, shrugging.

Yes, it could, Hawke, you liar.

Fenris bent over him again, his face filling Anders’ vision. “Keep still, mage,” he said, without a trace of irony. His tattoos flared to life, and Anders would have gulped if he could.

Andraste’s tits. He wasn’t actually going to—?

A gauntlet snared in his coat and _pulled_ , wrenching him through what felt like a waterfall of needles, his skin searing, prickling, humming. Then he was on his side, sucking in great, shuddery lungsful of air. If he held bruisingly tight to Fenris’ arm, well. He was still adjusting.

“Thank the Maker,” Hawke breathed behind him.

I can’t believe that worked, Anders said, or… he _tried_ to say, anyway. His lips and tongue moved, his lungs pumped air, but no sound came.

What? he mouthed. He clutched his chest, his throat, his breathing growing ragged.

“Anders?” Fenris’ hand was a solid weight on his back, holding him upright. Hawke and Varric crowded around, concerned and uncertain.

Anders looked up at him with round eyes. Fenris, he mouthed.

Fenris’ eyes widened. “ _Vanhedis_ ,” he breathed. “You can’t speak?”

Anders shook his head.

“Oh sweet Maker,” Hawke cursed.

 

Downstairs, the troupe gathered around a table and a round of drinks. Varric had taken pity on Anders and paid after all, and no one made mention of the cooling corpse upstairs. Were Fenris the more philosophical type, he’d wonder how this had come to qualify as normal to them.

Anders’ hands fidgeted around his drink, which was otherwise untouched, his body a hum of nervous energy, as though all those unsaid words were vibrating inside him, waiting to explode. At least he’d come down from his panic attack. Fenris offered him comfort the only way he knew how, by sitting at his side.

Varric took a long, long drink before asking, “So. What’re we gonna do about Blondie?”

Anders’ face pinched at the corners, and Fenris suspected it was because he didn’t like being talked about in third person.

“Don’t give me that face,” Varric countered, pointing his mug at Anders. “If you want to tell me a plan, I’ll all ears.”

Anders replied with an unhelpful, if rude, gesture. Fenris snorted into his drink.

“No thanks, Sweetheart,” Varric replied. “Now drink up. Tell Justice I don’t care what he thinks. You need it.”

Anders opened and closed his mouth a few times before sighing and taking the teeniest sip of his ale.

“Speaking of Justice,” Fenris said, giving Anders an appraising look, “how’s he taking this?”

Anders gave him a flat look, and then his eyes were glowing blue and the world around Fenris shivered with the Fade. Justice’s lips moved, forming soundless, if clearly angry, syllables.

Hawke snorted a laugh into his drink. “So maybe there are some perks to this after all.”

Justice turned a smoky blue glare his way, and Hawke choked, holding his hands palm out. “I take it back!”

The Fade dissipated, and Anders’ skin turned whole again. He blinked and shook his head as though to clear it.

“Maybe it will wear off?” Hawke suggested, more desperate than hopeful. “Most spells do eventually. Too bad my magic is better suited to smashing things into walls than undoing blood magic gags.”

“Too bad,” Varric agreed dryly.

Anders tapped the table to get everyone’s attention. He mouthed two syllables. Fenris exchanged confused looks with Varric and Hawke. Anders sighed, again, and mouthed the same two syllables, this time exaggerating the shape of the sounds.

Fenris still didn’t know what he was trying to say. Anders tried a third time, the veins on his neck showing with the effort.

“Barrel?” Hawke suggested, shrugging.

Anders dropped his face to the table, his forearms blocking his expression and what Fenris guessed was a silent scream. Varric patted his shoulder consolingly.

“You know,” said Varric, “I’m thinking that maybe we should be asking the resident blood mage about how to dispel this.”

Anders’ head shot up, and he pointed at Varric.

“Oh, _Merrill_ ,” Hawke said, expression clearing. “Is that what you were trying to say?”

Anders spread his hands as if to say, “Well, duh."

“Certainly not ‘barrel’,” Fenris mumbled into his drink.

“Where is Daisy anyway?”

Hawke winced, squirming in his seat.

“What did you do?” Fenris asked.

“Why are we assuming _I_ did anything?”

Varric, Fenris, and Anders gave Hawke identical flat looks over their drinks.

“Oh.” He scowled at them over the lip of his mug. “Well, for your information, Merrill is upset with me because I refused to help her fix the Mirror of Death. So for once, I was being the responsible one.”

“She’s a blood mage,” Fenris said matter-of-factly. “You’re always the responsible one in your relationship. That’s what concerns me.”

Hawke gave him a black look.

“Regardless, we could use her help,” Fenris amended. Anders looked at him, head tilted and brows knit.

Fenris could hear the unsaid, snide words: _Fenris asking for Merrill’s help? Miracles_ do _exist!_

But Anders looked embarrassed under the surprise, perhaps knowing that Fenris was swallowing his pride on his behalf. The mage’s fingers continued tapping at his drink.

“I’m not sure if Merrill wants to talk to me right now.”

Fenris leveled a withering look at Hawke, who ducked his head.

“Right. I’ll look for her.” Hawke rose to his feet, solemn as a man headed for the noose. He gave his drink one last, longing look, clapped Anders on the shoulder, and took his leave.

Tilting his head in Hawke’s direction, Fenris said to Varric, “You should make sure he doesn’t get into more trouble.”

 _I can look after the mage_ was what he was really saying.

The dwarf chuckled. “Or that she doesn’t kill him.” He looked at Fenris, at Anders, and hesitated.

Anders smiled brittly and shooed him with one hand. Varric nodded and followed Hawke, patting Anders’ shoulder as he passed as well, a gesture of farewell and sympathy with no words necessary. The mage gave Fenris a long-suffering look, his fingers still tapping, tapping against the side of his drink.

Fenris caught one fidgeting hand in his, gauntlets curled around clammy skin, and the mage finally stilled.

 

In Darktown, the stale air smelled like sulfur. Usually Anders lit the lantern with an (unnecessary but showy) flick of his wrist and then cleared the air with no gesture at all, banishing the rotten-eggs smell and, if the clinic were recently occupied, body odor, and replacing it instead with something subtle, sweet—something that called to mind open air and sunlight. A small, desperate blessing in this Maker-forsaken place.

Today, Anders lit the lantern by hand, refilled the oil and dug out an old, forgotten firesteel from his desk, relearning rusty gestures he’d used as a child, before his magic had manifested and made him lazy (among other adjectives).

“This affects your magic?” Fenris at his back, voice thick with the stink of Darktown.

Anders shrugged and made a face, hand see-sawing in the air: _sort of._ An unhelpful answer. Some spells required words, some merely will. Difficult to explain to a non-mage even with words.

“When I prayed for the Maker to give me some quiet this morning,” Fenris rumbled, “this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Anders sent him a glare over his shoulder that said more than words could. The wick caught, fire reflecting orange off lines of lyrium in the dark.

Fenris smiled crookedly, almost sheepishly, and held up his hands palm out. “I merely jest,” he said. Once inside, he sat on the crate nearest the door, the wood creaking under his shift of weight. “Are you sure about staying here tonight?”

Anders nodded. He didn’t like being coddled, but he understood Fenris’ concern. He looked about him at the empty clinic and tried not to think of the night Alrik had come to visit, another night he had felt like a prisoner in his own body.

He wondered if he would ever stop feeling trapped. He looked up at Fenris uncertainly, a question in his eyes, and Fenris searched his face.

“Then I suppose I might as well stay,” Fenris said, starting to unbuckle his gauntlets. Anders was both relieved and embarrassed that Fenris knew exactly what he’d wanted to ask. “I do not relish walking through Lowtown after dark.”

Anders sat beside him, caught Fenris’ hand in both of his under the pretense of helping him unbuckle his other gauntlet. Fenris watched his fingers move, watched the movements of his eyelids and the crinkle of his brow.

“We will fix this, mage,” he murmured, the lopsided grin gone and replaced with something softer. “I swear.”

Anders heaved a soundless sigh and leaned against the elf. Fenris’ armor poked his cheek uncomfortably, but he didn’t care.

 

The next day, Fenris had expected Anders to keep his clinic closed until the curse was lifted, but he supposed he ought to have known better. The damn mage was self-sacrificing to the point of nihilism.

Fenris stayed and kept watch, an awkward shadow and reluctant assistant, mostly fetching potions and poultices when needed. Eventually he and Anders worked out a system: one finger up meant healing, two meant lyrium, a spinning finger meant a roll of bandages, and a silent sigh meant _move faster, idiot_.

After a few hours of this, the two worked together silently, nearly seamlessly. Fenris was used to reading body language, to needing to anticipate his Master’s needs, and it surprised him how easily he was able to read Anders’ expressions, his moods, the tiniest of gestures. It would probably disturb him, too, if he stopped to think about it, (which he didn’t) but Anders was no Magister.

If Anders’ patients noticed that he was unusually quiet, none said anything, but Fenris could read the frustration in the pinch of his brow from time to time, when gestures and spells and potions clearly weren’t enough.

By mid-afternoon, Anders’ fingers were starting to shake, and when he held up two in a “lyrium” gesture, Fenris shook his head.

“That is enough,” he said. “You have exerted yourself.”

Anders pursed his lips, brows set in a defiant look. _Don’t tell me what to do,_ that look said.

Fenris folded his arms across his chest. “Too bad,” he said, responding to words Anders couldn’t say. “There are no emergencies, here. The rest of your patients can come back tomorrow.”

This last he said loudly, lip curling as he glared about the clinic. The remaining patients, a woman with the sniffles and a man with an embarrassing itch (Fenris assumed by way he squirmed), exchanged uneasy glances and shuffled out the door.

Fenris followed them out to extinguish the lantern, and he didn’t need to look at Anders to feel his glare.

“Be as angry as you wish. You know I’m right.”

Anders huffed silently and turned to put away his supplies. Fenris smiled, knowing the mage wouldn’t argue even if he could speak. He watched Anders sulk and fiddle with his potions. Now that he had time to, he wondered why they hadn’t heard from Hawke yet.

Fenris came up behind the mage. Anders’ eyes stayed downcast, face turned away, and Fenris watched the too-quick rise and fall of his chest. Suddenly he understood why Anders had wanted to keep working. He’d wanted a distraction.

Fenris pressed his forehead to Anders’ temple, lips brushing the shell of the mage’s ear, and Anders melted against him, turned instead to meet Fenris’ lips with his own. There was always a desperation in the way he kissed, like each hungry press of lips was the first and the last.

Fenris wrapped an arm around Anders’ waist and pulled him close, while the mage wrapped his arms around his shoulders, fingers catching in Fenris’ hair, desperate kiss turning frantic. Fenris slowed Anders with palms skating down his flanks, like he was soothing a spooked animal. They pulled back for air, and despite his superior height, the foolish human tried to burrow under his chin like a child, his shoulders two hunched balls of tension against Fenris’ chest.

Fenris simply held him and let him breathe. His hair smelled of sweat and lyrium and elfroot and _Anders_ and it masked the stink of Darktown for the moment.

“Hush, _mi Amatus_ ,” Fenris murmured. Then, with the just the right amount of cruelty, “I’m trying to enjoy the silence.”

The punch below his ribs told him the jibe wasn’t appreciated, but the curl of a smile at his throat told him otherwise. Fenris chuckled, more shaking shoulders than sound. “ _Te amo_ ,” he murmured, burying his nose in golden hair, smothering himself in it and in the sudden warmth of affection bubbling up his chest.

 _I love you_.

A coward’s affection, masked by a different language, certain of no reply, denial or otherwise.

“ _Tam multum amo ut verear,_ ” he amended, bitter.

_I love you so much that I’m afraid._

Anders stilled, shoulders unknotting as he pulled back, expression somehow both curious and blank, and for a moment Fenris couldn’t breathe with a new fear, a fear that maybe his mage knew what he was saying.

Another silent sigh, face pinching in frustration, and then Anders was pulling away and heading for his desk. Armed with ink and a quill, he etched out words with a fevered will before holding it in front of Fenris’ face. Fenris looked at the shapes, his own sigh decidedly not silent, and gave Anders a flat look.

“You think Danarius taught me how to read?” he said, voice tight.

Anders’ eyes widened before looking down and away, abashed. He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the direction of his desk, eyes prickling now with tears of frustration. He tore at his hair with one hand while gesturing inarticulately with the other until Fenris took both hands in his.

“Fool mage,” he chided gently. “We will fix this. Patience.”

Anders’ shoulders sagged, and he gave the elf a look of pure desperation. He suspected they had the same thought: what if they couldn’t?

“We _will_ ,” Fenris murmured.

 

Fenris missed Anders’ voice that night, missed his little hitching breaths, his breathy pleas of “oh Maker”, his guttural swears in a language Fenris didn’t know. He missed the filth the mage would whisper in his ear, the taunts he’d growl when he wanted it rough, the cries he’d choke back or stifle.

As they moved together, rougher, faster, Anders’ toes curling and lips parted in a silent “o”, as Anders shuddered and came apart beneath him, Fenris found himself missing that voice with an almost physical ache.

Afterwards, as they lay panting, still entwined and hearts still pounding, Anders mouthed something to Fenris, his eyes tender and desperate for understanding. But Fenris shook his head, uncomprehending, and Anders turned onto his side, the picture of abject misery. Fenris curled up behind him and wondered what he’d missed.

 

The next morning, after a shared breakfast, Anders handed Fenris the firesteel to light the lantern as he started to ready the clinic. Fenris yawned as he struck flint to tinder, when Hawke appeared out of the dark.

He looked sunburnt and bedraggled but otherwise hale, and Merrill was at his side. The space between the two radiated ice.

“ _Aneth ara_ , Fenris.”

Fenris left the lantern unlit and walked back into the clinic. “Took you long enough.”

“Hello to you too,” Hawke mumbled, following.

Merrill glided past them both towards Anders, who was visibly struggling with the desire to say something.

“Hello, Anders,” Merrill said, always sweet, always courteous.

 _Too_ sweet, Fenris thought. Naïve.

Anders gave her a sarcastic wave. Her large eyes softened even further. “Hawke told me what happened,” she said. “A binding spell that went a little… awry. I cannot guarantee anything, but I’ll try to help.”

Anders nodded, eyes wary but desperate. He gave her his hands when she reached for them, her own glowing with energy, brow crinkling in concentration. The air crackled with static, and Fenris’ tattoos itched.

Merrill hummed and frowned, the light dissipating. “The spell must have reacted to Fenris’ lyrium,” she murmured. “It will be difficult, but I can dispel it. I will need to use blood magic, however.”

Polite. Not rubbing it in their faces that they needed her blood magic now after scorning it for so long, though Fenris was sure she was tucking this moment away for use later, the next time she needed moral high ground to stand on.

“Do it,” Fenris said, his voice little more than a growl. The group turned to stare at him. Even Anders’ eyes were round with surprise. Fenris folded his arms across his chest and stared at each in turn. “It’s not like we have a choice,” he said, perhaps a bit defensively.

Anders laid a hand on Fenris’ arm, his touch soft, tentative. Fenris’ expression softened, and he brushed the back of Anders’ fingers with the pads of his.

“Please,” Fenris asked, because Anders could not.

The taste of blood in the air, the drip of red between white fingers. The air crackled again with static, with _power_ that made the hairs on the back of Fenris’ neck rise. It made his tattoos flare and itch with the memory of Danarius’ touch, of the heavy press of his magic.

Fenris didn’t know how long it went on, but the end came suddenly. His ears popped with the shift of the power, the compression of air.

“Sweet Maker, that felt _weird_.”

Fenris sagged in relief at the sound of that voice, strangled and small as it was. Anders coughed and clutched his throat, knuckles white and grin just a touch hysterical.

“Oh Maker. Sweet Maker,” Anders whimpered, sagging onto a cot. “I can… I can feel the words vibrating in my throat again. Do you have any idea how odd it feels to talk and feel nothing? Never mind _hearing_ nothing. Oh _Maker_. Can we not do that again please? Blood magic and prostitutes is always a bad combination, you know, Hawke. I—”

“I don’t suppose there’s a way to turn it back on and off at will?” Fenris asked Merrill.

“Shut up,” Anders said without rancor. “I will talk as much and as long as I want, and you will put up with it. _Maker_. Now I know how a Saarebas feels.”

Anders continued to ramble in a croaking, halting voice as Merrill went to fetch him water and Hawke hid a chuckle behind his hand.

“You’re never going to shut him up now,” Hawke said to Fenris, who shrugged.

“There are ways,” he said, smile impish.

Hawke made a face somewhere between horrified and intrigued.

“Thank you, Merrill,” Anders was saying, the flow of words barely stopping through sips of water. “You are a goddess among elves, a paragon of loveliness and virtue.” Merrill looked unsure whether to blush or laugh.

Fenris approached, brushed Anders’ hair back from his face.

“Maker. Maker, I—”

“Mage. Hush.” A gentle reprimand.

Anders’ words finally stuttered out of him, his breathing this side of ragged, knuckles white around the cup of water. Fenris’ hand slipped to his nape, thumb rubbing soothing circles in the clammy skin there.

Hawke cleared his throat, and Anders and Fenris looked up. “Now that that crisis is averted, I am in desperate need of a hot bath.” He turned towards the door. “Wicked Grace later?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Anders said, grin still too wide.

“Excellent.” A flash of teeth, then eyes on Merrill. The grin faded. “Are you… coming home?”

Ice again, when Merrill looked back. Fenris exchanged a look with Anders.

“Will you give me the _arulin’holm_?” she asked.

Hawke’s face pinched with grief. “No.”

“Then no.”

Hawke nodded, resigned but unsurprised. He paused in the doorway. “Be angry with me as long as you like,” he said, hardly glancing over his shoulder. “As long as you’re safe, I can take it.”

Back bowed, he left. Merrill’s breath hitched, eyes large and wet and glimmering. “I will, ah… I will see you at Wicked Grace later?” she said, rubbing her eyes with the heel of one hand.

Fenris nodded.

“Of course,” Anders said.

She bid them goodbye and retreated into Darktown.

Fenris’ thumb still traced circles along Anders’ skin. The mage leaned against him, cheek to Fenris’ waist.

“Alright?” Fenris asked.

“I will be. That was…” Struggling for words, now that he had them. “I was so afraid I’d never speak again. I—”

“And now I’m afraid you’ll never stop.”

“ _Fenris_.”

A chuckle. “Teasing, mage.” A pause filled with Anders’ warmth against him. “Shall we open the clinic?"

Anders pressed a kiss to a jut of hipbone, gaze impish through his lashes.

“Mage,” Fenris warned.

“It’s still early,” he said, cheek pressed to leather, a hand skating up Fenris’ thigh.

Growled, “You will be the death of me.” Fenris pulled him up by the hair and kissed the grin from his lips.

 

After Wicked Grace, they stumbled drunkenly back to Fenris’ mansion, arms around waists and knees bumping. This was only the second time Fenris had seen Anders drunk, his cheeks ruddy and grin goofy, and he was singing a bawdy tune about mages and their staffs, loudly, obnoxiously, simply because he could.

On a particularly loud note, Fenris laughed so hard he snorted, and the two almost fell into a heap on the cobblestones.

Hawke trailed behind them, making sure they stayed out of trouble, regrettably sober and probably shaking his head.

“Alright, drunkards, you just walked past the front door. Try again.”

Hawke grabbed Fenris’ arm and used it as a rudder to steer the pair. Once they were safely stowed inside, Hawke left, closing and locking the door behind him.

“Hey,” said Anders, boozy breath hot in Fenris’ ear. “I want to show you something.”

“I’ll show _you_ something,” Fenris replied intelligently, hand on Anders’ waist sliding to cup his rump.

Anders snorted and swatted the hand away. “Seen it. Done it. Shh, come on.”

Fenris couldn’t tell who was steering whom, supporting whom, but somehow they made it to the study on the second floor with little incident. The room swam pleasantly, his vision sharpened and narrowed from drink to the dip of quill in inkpot and callused, herb-stained fingers tracing clumsy shapes along the margin of a dusty book. They had somehow collapsed into the chair together, legs tangling and bones bruising.

“Still can’t read, mage,” Fenris slurred helpfully. Anders shushed him, placing the feather against his lips. It tickled Fenris’ nose and made him sneeze.

Anders scribbled out a few more symbols and slid the marked book over to Fenris. “Do you know what this says?” he asked.

Fenris bit back the bitter answer on the tip of his tongue and merely said, “No."

Anders gave him a small, private smile, looking much too pleased with himself. “That’s your name,” he said, pointing at the first line of shapes. Fenris looked at them as though they could speak if he stared hard enough, but the squiggles remained meaningless. Still, he indulged the mage.

“And this?” Fenris asked, pointing at the second set of symbols.

“That’s my name. My _real_ name.”

Fenris looked up at him, read the tenderness in Anders’ expression, mask loosened in the wake of too much alcohol and the stress of the last few days. Fenris rather liked that stupid, love-drunk look on his face.

These symbols Fenris traced with the tip of one finger, jerking back when his reverent touch smeared the ink. These symbols he wanted committed to memory, tattooed on his flesh in place of lyrium.

“I could teach you how to read it, if you like.”

There was an invisible hand around his throat. That was the only explanation for why such simple words were suddenly so difficult to say. “I would like that,” Fenris said, clearing his throat when the words came out choked and shaky. Anders smiled brighter, softer, and scooted closer, dipping his quill in more ink.

“What’s that say?” Fenris asked, squinting at the new cluster of shapes, broken now by spaces here and there.

Anders’ smile was crooked, impish. “ _Mi stulte_ ,” he said, and Fenris’ insides flipped at the sound of Tevene on Anders’ lips. “ _Et te amo._ ”

_My idiot. I love you too._

**Author's Note:**

> The next piece in the series will be a prequel, showing how Fenris realized he had a thing for our favorite possessed apostate. 
> 
> I'm also MaverikLoki on tumblr for anyone who's interested. Come say hello? :D


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